Shellacked
"Call me Mélisande, Mx Darling," burbles the painfully trendy young person gesturing Charlie to a twirly chair. Charlie sighs and sits. "Let me see your hands." Reaches— Charlie projects grievous bodily harm. —freezes. "Please? I'm supposed to do your nails for the shoot." Charlie relents. Mélisande carefully separates and examines each finger of Charlie's right hand. "Ooo. You keep them really short. You must work with your hands." A sniff. Plows on. "With your colours, we can either go really bold or keep it subtle." Leans back, studies Charlie's supremely unimpressed expression. "You're a subtle colour person, ay?" Charlie rolls her eyes. "I think I have just the thing!" The stylist digs about in a foot locker-sized case full of nothing but small glass bottles. Comes up triumphant with one in pale pink: "Tahdah!" Charlie remains unimpressed. The stylist smiles bravely and drags polish across Charlie's thumbnail. Do not think of the toxins in this stuff. Mélisande aims a small cool-air dryer at the wet enamel. After a moment, turns the digit to and fro, proclaims, "Perfect!" Glances up through long lashes at Charlie. Charlie shrugs. Mélisande soldiers on through Charlie's right, then left, hands. As Charlie's ring finger receives its coat: "I really admire you, Mx Darling." "Hmm?" "You're so /'brave' to stand by your husband, even with what's, uh, happened with him." Charlie's heart climbs into her throat. "You know?" Mélisande, wide-eyed, nods gravely. "I heard before we came out this morning. That poor Quartermasterling ...." Charlie's heart drops right past its home in her chest. Mélisande leans closer to whisper in Charlie's ear. "He's been doing really, really well today, don't you think?" Charlie grinds out, "What, /'exactly', did they tell you?" "Th-they said he hadn't taken his meds today and might be really confused—out of it—" Do /'not' maim this little idiot. Do. Not. "—and he can be /'really' unpredictable and he's, like, super strong, so we should be really, /'really' careful around him." Mélisande falls blissfully silent after switching the pink polish for the clear top coat. /Clunk /clump /clunk /clump Charlie glances at the ceiling. "Sounds like the shoot's still going well?" offers Mélisande. A door opens. Book, breathless with excitement: "—mpress Eighteen says, 'Au con—" Mélisande nods to someone over Charlie's shoulder. "Hey, Denver." A door clicks shut. "Hey, Mélisande, Mx Darling—your kids are /'gorgeous'." "Thanks," Charlie replies tightly, brushing aside the mental pile of heat exchanger for a six-stroke diesel engine, and had a lovely line of washers-by-size when— "I hope your kids—they're so /'beautiful'—never develop—" gestures vaguely headward "—that. These things can run in families, you know? And his brother's—" "Are you done?" snaps Charlie. Mélisande jumps, blinks rapidly. "Yea?" More blinking. "Yea. I-I'll go get Alcott to start on your hair." A scuttle of hard-soled shoes on lino and Charlie's alone. Category:Ficlet Category:Picture Perfect Arc Category:Melisande Category:Charlie Category:Descriptions of Charlie Category:Charlie is intimidating Category:Jackson (mention) Category:Baby (mention) Category:Book Category:Empress Eighteen (mention) Category:Denver Category:Alcott (mention) Category:Fashion Category:Logan (mention) Category:Charlie (ficlet) Category:Book (ficlet) Category:Child Language Category:Jackson is delusional Category:Charlie's hair Category:Logan has an antisocial personality disorder Category:Star Trek (reference) Category:PPDC manipulating personnel opinion Category:PPDC controlling the Joneses Category:Charlie (description) Category:Mélisande Category:Picture Perfect arc